


Eyes Only

by the_deep_magic



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Community: help_pakistan, Conspiracy, Crack, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Just so we are clear- there's no such thing as a 'Pinto Mafia.' That would imply there's something to cover up. Which, ok, there are some things that do need to be concealed, but that's just because they're idiots and need protection from themselves.  It's not like they are fucking.  We think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Only

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilleigh24](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aprilleigh24).



Case ID #19660908  
Opened 4 May 2009  
Preliminary Report  
EYES ONLY – DO NOT COPY

SUBJECT #1: [NAME REDACTED]  
29 y.o. male, Caucasian, brown hair/blue eyes, 6’1” ~~porn lips  
~~ Born August 26, 1980, in Los Angeles, CA  
Education: BA in English Literature, University of California Berkeley  
Current residence: [REDACTED] Silverlake area, Los Angeles, CA

Subject is known to make daily visits to LAMILL coffee, orders espresso (black) save for Sundays, when he orders a caramel macchiato ~~with extra chocolate shavings, that poser~~.  Other habits include jogging and browsing at [REDACTED] for used books.  Subject primarily wears a white t-shirt and dark-colored jeans, though has occasionally been observed to wear plaid.

N.B.: Conducting surveillance disguised as paparazzo not recommended for this subject, as will generally provoke ~~coffee thrown at your head~~ a hostile reaction and unwanted attention.

SUBJECT #2: [NAME REDACTED]  
32 y.o. male, Caucasian, dark brown hair/ ~~bedroom~~ brown eyes, 6’1”  
Born June 2, 1977, in Pittsburgh, PA  
Education: BFA in Musical Theatre, Carnegie Mellon University  
Current residence: [REDACTED] Silverlake area, Los Angeles, CA

Subject shares residence with Irish wolfhound/Airedale terrier mix (“Noah”) and black cat (“Harold”).  Habits, in addition to regular dog-walking, include twice-weekly yoga class and trips to local secondhand stores.  Initial surveillance shows preference for striped clothes, tight jeans, and a variety of ~~fug~~ hats.

N.B.: ~~Hell beast~~ Canine “Noah” is unusually perceptive and will bark in direction of surveillance unit – approach with caution.

&&&

My name’s not important.  But I guess you need to call me something, so call me G.

Who I work for… well, that _is_ important, but I can’t even give you a hint on that one.  Let’s just say I work for an independent consulting firm that specializes in selective information dispersal.  I help with the selecting.

I know this all sounds like some X-Files level conspiracy shit, but covering up the existence of extraterrestrials?  _Please_.  The real money’s in Hollywood.  If people found out a UFO really had crashed here in 1949, they’d freak out for about a day, then go back to complaining about the price of movie theater popcorn.  But if people knew some of the shit that goes on in this town, they’d probably go back to board games for entertainment, and then there’d be a lot of very nice people who would be out of a job.

My job isn’t new, either.  Back in the golden age of Hollywood, the studios owned their actors.  The “talent” got told how to dress, where to go, what to say, who to date – they were selling the studio’s product, 24/7.  How do you think Margarita Carmen Cansino turned into Rita Hayworth?  Most people think that’s gone by the wayside, and to a large extent, they’re right.  But it hasn’t stopped – it’s just gone underground.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’d like to say I knew all along it was going to be different, but the case started like any other: “politely” (read: condescendingly) concerned studio bosses, frantic publicists, and – as always – utterly oblivious talent.  In the conference room, M is sitting next to me, flipping through her copy of the dossier.  “I’ve never even heard of these guys,” she mutters.

“The dark haired one is on that show my sister likes,” says J helpfully, even though no one asked him.  “What’s the deal with women and bad boys, huh?”  J is new, and we’re all still getting used to him, mostly in the sense of trying to remember not to smack him upside the head.

“So what’s the deal with these two?” I ask M.  “Drugs?  Dead hooker?  Embarrassing relatives?”

M leans in, subtly turning her back to J.  “According to V… gay as rainbow-farting unicorns.”

Silly me – I just sigh.  “That again?” Those are my least favorite cases; if I wanted to spend my days tracking down and bribing vacuous twinks to keep their pouty little lips shut, I’d…  Well, I’d have to look long and hard at the series of life choices I’d made to bring me up to that point. 

M just grins and goes for the punch line.  “…for each other.”

I’m sure my mouth drops open.  I quickly flip back through the file to their pictures.  God, yeah, I can see it.  Pretty clearly in fact.  With gauzy lighting and soft background music.  “That.  Is.  _Hot_.”

“What’s hot?” whines J.

At that moment our boss, T, walks in, slamming the door behind her.  “Alright, people, we got an urgent call on this one.  Seems these two have a movie coming out any day now, and some bigwig apparently sat down and actually watched their international press tour footage and is worried about his Next Big Things canoodling in public.”

Ugh, I hate that word, “canoodling.”  It’s like some horrible portmanteau for the act of propelling a boat with spaghetti.  How would you even do that?  Unless the spaghetti was uncooked and bound together into extra-long poles, and even then I’m pretty sure it would…

I realize I’ve zoned out for the past minute or so, but when I refocus, T isn’t really saying anything we haven’t already heard a dozen times before.  The usual: surveillance, keeping the studio execs calm and the paps away at the wrong times and close at the right times.  I glance back down at the pictures in the dossier and I can’t help it, my mind begins to wander again.  Wonder which one of them tops…

&&&

Transcript  
Conversation between SUBJECT #1 and SUBJECT #2 at #2’s residence  
Recorded 17 May 2009

ZQ: [SUBJECT #1], hey!  Wasn’t expecting you!

CP: Uh, I know.  Is it alright that I stopped by?

ZQ: Yeah, totally.  C’mon in.  You eaten yet?

CP: Uh-huh, had some Taco Bell about an hour ago.

ZQ: [laughter] Glad to see international fame hasn’t changed you.

CP: I don’t know – I didn’t order off the dollar menu this time.  I’m not interrupting anything, am I?

ZQ: No, actually, I was having a quiet night in for once.

CP: Oh. [pause] Then I don’t have to stay.  I mean, I know we haven’t gotten much time to ourselves since we got back.

ZQ: No, it’s fine.  Actually, I’m…  Well, it sounds stupid, but I was kind of almost getting lonely.  I thought for sure I would just want to hole up here and not talk to anyone for days, but I kind of miss having people around all the time.

CP: I know, right?  I was that way for, like, a day, and then I got kind of depressed that there was no one around to laugh at my jokes.

ZQ: And this differs from the last week of the press tour… how?

CP: Shut up, you love my jokes.  You totally steal them.

ZQ: Nuh-uh!

CP: Yes-huh!  You told the one about the donkey and the avocadoes to that production assistant in Germany.

ZQ: Once.  One time.  And it’s not like you came up with the damn thing.

CP: I… could have.  I have excellent comedy writing skills.

ZQ: Sure you do, baby.

CP: Hey, I didn’t come here to be infantilized!

ZQ: Well, what did you come here for?

CP: Uh, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles marathon?

ZQ: Okay, who squealed?  Was it Karl?  No, couldn’t be Karl.  It was John, wasn’t it?

CP: Yes.  It’s all John’s fault.  All of it.  Just… show me?

ZQ: I’m not sure you’re worthy.

CP: I am.  So, so worthy.

ZQ: I don’t know…

CP: I will beg, [SUBJECT #2].  I will get down on my knees right now.  I have no pride when it comes to this.

ZQ: [sigh] Fine. [footsteps, sound of cabinet opening]

CP: Oh… Oh my god.  There are… no words.  They should’ve sent a poet.

ZQ: If you’re mocking me, I swear to god—

CP: No, never.  How could I mock this glory?  Do you… do you have every episode taped?

ZQ: I’m missing some of the earliest ones, but—

CP: Oh my god, you even have those Bebop and Rocksteady videos they sold at Burger King.

ZQ: [pause] Please stop hugging me.

CP: No.

ZQ: [SUBJECT #1]…

CP: Just another minute.  You feel so good in my arms.

ZQ: The dog is looking at us.

CP: Fine.  Oh my god, I don’t even know where to start.  The movies: one, two, and three.  Which is the one where they get sent back to feudal Japan?

ZQ: Three, but I’ve got to say, it really doesn’t hold up—

CP: [clapping] Put it in!  Put it in!  Put it in!

ZQ: Wow, okay, file that under the list of things I never thought I’d hear you shouting at me.  Will it make you happy?

CP: Like nothing else in the world.

ZQ: Alright.  You go make popcorn, I’ll fast-forward through the previews.

CP: Ooh, what previews?

ZQ: Three Ninjas Kick Back.

CP: You don’t happen to have—

ZQ: Popcorn!  Go!

TAPE ENDS

 

&&&

“Tuna salad again?  Really?  _Really_?”

M rolls her eyes at me.  “Fine.  Next stakeout, you bring the food.”

“I’m not sure tuna salad on pumpernickel even legally qualifies as food.  Next time just drop the pretense and bring mayonnaise on cardboard.”  I’m whining now and I know it, but come on.  We’ve got twelve hours together in this tiny-ass little bunker, sharing a pair of binoculars and a camera between us, and we’re both going to have tuna breath.  I want hazard pay for this.

Obviously, we’re still doing recon at this point.  It would be a lot easier just to check the tapes during, you know, normal business hours, since they have to be transcribed anyway, but our company’s competitive edge is that we have live agents in the field at all times.  In case members of the press decided to knock on somebody’s door at 11 on a Saturday night?  I don’t know.  Beats the hell out of paperwork, though, and at least I’ve got M with me instead of J.  That would… not end well.

M’s got the binocs trained on the house and the audio feed is playing softly through our earpieces, but they’ve been playing Mario Kart for two hours now and show no signs of stopping.

She sighs.  “It’s a shame they’re not actually together.”

That makes me sit up… and promptly slam my head on the ridiculously low ceiling.  “They’re not together?”

“Nope,” M says, and I can tell she’s just a little bit jazzed to know something I don’t.  “You didn’t know?”

I groan.  “I’ve been pacifying asshat executives and keeping J from physically injuring himself all week.  And all of them assume these two are doing the squirrel nasty every chance they get.”

M shakes her head.  “Not even close.  I’ve talked to all the transcriptionists, plus the guys on day shift – no one’s seen or heard anything.  Unless they’re getting their jollies in two minute increments in the Intelligentsia bathroom, there’s no fucking.”

“But… they…”  I can’t believe it.  The little I’ve seen and heard of them, they act like lovers – they way they pick up on each other’s thoughts, how casually they touch.  But come to think of it, I’ve never even seen them kiss.  “So _everybody’s_ wrong?”

With a shrug, M says, “Doesn’t really matter.  If people think they are, that’s the problem.  You’ve seen how they interact – even you thought they were Big Gay Boyfriends.”

I get hit with a sudden, inexplicable wave of… well, not quite sadness.  And not quite frustration, either – something in between the two.  I usually rationalize this job by remembering that I’m protecting people’s privacy – if our subjects get it in their heads to announce to the world that they’re gay or have a drug problem or have a cousin down in Pensacola with a freezer full of severed heads, we can’t stop them.  Until that happens, though, we keep it under wraps, even if the subjects themselves don’t know we’re doing it.

But now we’re dissecting every moment of their lives to hide something that doesn’t even exist.

“Hey,” M says, elbowing me.  “You’re getting all quiet on me.”

“Yeah, sorry.  It’s just kind of tragic, don’t you think?”

Her face is sympathetic, but she shrugs again.  “Not my place to say.  These guys are just good friends, right?  This way, we’re keeping the rest of the world out of their friendship.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, unwrapping the godforsaken “sandwich.”  “Probably better for them, anyway.  These things always end badly.”

There’s silence for a few minutes, the M pipes up with “Ooh!  Ooh, the one with The Hair just dumped beer all over his shirt!”

“They both have hair.”

“You know, _The Hair_ ,” she says, like I’m the clueless idiot.  “Five bucks says the shirt comes off and we see the Bat Signal again.”

“What are you…”  I wrestle the binoculars out of her hands and focus them back on the window.  “Holy shit, it _does_ look like the Bat Signal.”

&&&

Transcript  
Telephone conversation between SUBJECT #2 and brother, [NAME REDACTED]  
Recorded 21 June 2009

ZQ: Hey, man.  What’s up?

JQ: Noth— Did you just hear a clicky noise?

ZQ: A clicky noise?

JQ: Yeah.

ZQ: Nope.

JQ: Because I definitely just heard a clicky noise.  Isn’t that what your phone does when somebody’s tapped it?

ZQ: Jesus, [NAME REDACTED], paranoid much?  You just have a shitty old phone.

JQ: It’s not paranoia if they’re actually after you.

ZQ: You watch too much TV.  Why’d you call?

JQ: Just wanted to see how you were doing.

ZQ: Uh, fine. [pause]  Did you have reason to believe otherwise?

JQ: No, I just…  I saw some pictures.

ZQ: Were they pretty pictures?  Did they make you feel happy?

JQ: Fuck you, [SUBJECT #2].  I saw [SUBJECT #1] got papped with that MTV chick again.

ZQ: Good for him.

JQ: [SUBJECT #2]…

ZQ: What?

JQ: That doesn’t bother you?  He obviously doesn’t give two shits about those girls.

ZQ: What the fuck do you want me to say?

JQ: Repressing all this can’t be good for you.

ZQ: Who says I’m repressing anything?

JQ: Look, you can bullshit everyone else, but don’t try to do it to me.

ZQ: I just don’t see how talking about it is going to fix anything.

JQ: Maybe help you get it out of your system?  Or at least make a plan, or something.

ZQ: A plan?  I can’t do anything about it.

JQ: Why not?

ZQ: Why the hell do you think?  Even if we weren’t friends, I’ll have to work with him again.

JQ: What exactly do you think he’s going to do if you say something?  Punch you?  It’s [SUBJECT #1], he’s not that guy.

ZQ: No, here’s what happens – he says he’s flattered, “No, man, really, it’s cool.”  But the next time our hands happen to brush together, he flinches.  He tries to hide it, but he flinches.  The next time I go to hug him, I get a handshake.  Then every time I call him, he’s busy – really apologetic about it, all “next time, I swear.”  Then I stop calling him, just to see if he’ll ever call me on his own, and he doesn’t.  Then I sit around hating myself for ever saying anything in the first place, because if I hadn’t, I’d at least get to see him smile at me every now and then.

JQ: Wow, so you’ve already written his lines for him.  How proactive of you.

ZQ: That’s just how it happens.  Every time.  You want me to give you names?

JQ: I just think you’re underestimating him.

ZQ: And if I’m not? [pause] Look, I’m not that guy.  I can’t just… throw everything we have away because I’m stupid enough to hope that there could be something more.

JQ: Alright, well, I’m not going to try to talk you into anything.  It’s your life.  Just… don’t give up on him before you’ve given him a chance, alright?

ZQ: Sure.  I’ve got to go – I’ve got a meeting.

JQ: Yeah, okay.  Take care, little bro.

ZQ: Bye.

CALL ENDS

 

&&&

Forget the stakeouts, forget the tedious transcription – this here is the worst part of my job, trolling through this cesspit of humanity’s darker inclinations.  We like to think we’re civilized beings, that we won’t start rubbing barbecue sauce on each other the second the food runs out, but there’s a seamy underbelly of society that caters to our worse impulses, and you don’t even have to look very hard to find it.

“Nothing on Perez Hilton,” I announce to M.  We trade off between the magazines and the websites, and it’s the latter for me today.  I hate it; at least the print publications tend not to use words like “slut-tastic.”

M just grunts dismissively, apparently deeply engrossed in the story of Oprah’s gay love dungeon.  I double check down the list of current clients, none of whom have made any less-than-savory appearances on the main gossip websites in the past 24 hours.  It’s a bizarre measure of job performance, but there you go.

I lean back in my chair and sigh, letting my eyes lose focus until the computer screen is just an obnoxiously pink blur.  I’m working on five different long-term cases at the moment, but there’s only one that really follows me home at night.  It’s not like we don’t see tragic little stories unfold in front of our telephoto lenses on a regular basis.  More than once I’ve wanted to step in, make an anonymous call to the sister to tell her where the fresh-out-of-rehab starlet keeps the hidden stash of booze, but our job isn’t fixing problems; it’s keeping them quiet.  And I suppose that’s just as well, since the thought of J trying to fix anything makes that little vein in my head throb.

M jolts me out of my thoughts by slapping the magazine down on the table.  “It’s so sad,” she says, shaking her head with faux pity.  “She seems so nice on the TV, always giving away cars and trips to Australia and… humpback whales?  I assume.”

“You get a humpback whale!” I announce, pointing in turn to everyone in the office.  “And you get a humpback whale!  And _you_ get a humpback whale!”  It’s a tired, stupid joke, but the day the word “humpback” is no longer funny to me is the day I pack it in for good and resign myself to being an actual adult.

“What’s up with you?” M asks.  “You’ve had your thinky face on for the past couple of days.  Thinky face is dangerous around here.”

“Then J is going to work out well.”  I really must look distracted, because M just quirks an eyebrow and stares me down.  “Alright, fine.  I can’t stop thinking about those guys.”

Fortunately, M knows who I mean.  “Me neither, but I save that for Me Time.”

I snort and kick her lightly under the table.  “I mean, everyone thinks they’re together, right?  And they’ve totally got the hots for each other.  They should just go for it.”

M’s eyebrows shoot up.  “Huh, never took you for a romantic.”

“I’m not,” I say, frowning.  “Not usually, but something about these two…”

“You said it yourself,” she says, her tone uncommonly gentle.  “How often do these things end in hearts and marshmallows and teddy bears?”

“Never,” I sigh, but I’m thinking _they should at least have the chance_.

M claps a hand over my shoulder.  “C’mon, T’s out of the office for the afternoon.  Let’s go get milkshakes and hypothesize the number of boys that will be summoned forth to our yard.”

Maybe I should be concerned by how easily I’m distracted by frozen dairy treats, but I grab my purse.

&&&

 

Evidence Log  
Item #47b

Item: three (3) pages torn from a Moleskine notebook  
Retrieval date: 7 July 2009  
Retrieval location: SUBJECT #1’s trash  
Notes: Graphologist reports that subject’s heavy pressure with the pen indicates deep emotional tension.  ~~Agent G reports “no shit.”~~

 

 ~~Dear~~ [SUBJECT #2],

I’m fighting the urge to start this with platitudes – that’s never really been our thing ~~, not since the time you got drunk and told me your first love was Joey Lawrence~~.  I find I have no idea how to segue gracefully into this, yet I can’t just come out and say it, either.  Or write it, you know what I mean.  In fact, committing it to paper seems more real than just saying it out loud, since words on a page are visible, permanent.  So maybe this is more for  me than for you ~~, since I don’t even know if I’m going to send this~~.  I wonder if seeing it will make it easier for me to understand.

 ~~I feel~~   ~~The first time we met~~   I love you.  I’m in love with you.  I couldn’t tell you when it started – I can’t point to a date and say “This is the day I fell in love with [SUBJECT #2].”  All I know is that when we finished filming, you were a good friend and nothing more, and after the press tour I realized I wanted your respect, your attention more than anything.  It’s been ~~fucking~~ inconvenient, to tell you the truth.  I’ve been trying to deny it for a long time, tried to say it’s just not me, it’s some phase.  I’ve joked around it because I didn’t want you to ask.  I still don’t consider myself gay, even ~~when I fantasize about your~~ though I’m undeniably attracted to you.  I don’t look at guys and think, “Fuck, yeah, that’s hot,” not like I do with you.

My point is that I don’t know what this is.  And ~~I’d rather cut out my own eyes than~~ I don’t want to burden you with something I’m so far from understanding.  You told me about  [NAME REDACTED], the guy from college who strung you along then decided he was straight after all.  You’re tough – hell, you have much thicker skin than I do – but I could tell that even talking about it was difficult.  I would never do that to you, not intentionally, but I don’t want to promise you anything I’m not sure I can follow through on.

 ~~Sometimes I think you know.  Sometimes I’ll put my hand on your shoulder, just as an excuse to touch you, and you look at me like I’ve got everything written in block letters across my face.  And you never push me away.  But you never say anything about it either, and I feel like you would.  You’ve never been one to play coy – if you felt the same way, you’d tell me.  I think you would.~~

I don’t even know if you feel the same way; it would be pure hubris to assume that you did.  I’ve seen the guys you date, and they’re nothing like me.  But then, you’ve seen the girls I go out with, and god forbid either of us be judged on that alone.

I’ve decided now – I can’t send this.  I’m not brave enough.  My love for you is too fragile, and love is supposed to be strong, isn’t it?  It’s supposed to move mountains and all that shit, not feel like a half-starved baby bird that might never be ready to fly.  No, I would rather protect it, let it live and die a land-bound life than watch it fall through the air and die.  And since I’m not sending this, I don’t have to apologize for the painfully mawkish analogy. 

It’s rather freeing, actually – I can tell you anything I want right here on this page.  I could tell you that I think about your hands on me all the time.  Sometimes I even think about your cock, wonder if it looks like mine, if it’s longer, thicker.  How it would feel in my hand.  And, late at night, how it would feel in my mouth, what you taste like.  I’m not expecting to love it or anything, but I can’t imagine I’d hate the taste of you.  I had a girlfriend once who was really into strap-ons, did I ever tell you that?  I didn’t love it, but it didn’t totally turn me off either.  I understand the appeal of it.  Would I let you fuck me?  I think so.  Might have to get a few beers in me first, but I think I could do it.  You’d be careful, I know you would.  You’d make it good for me.  Would I fuck you?  Oh, god, [SUBJECT #2], in a heartbeat.  If you let me, I don’t think I’d ever want to stop.  I can almost see it, you spread out under me, your eyes going wide when I push into you, your

Okay, for obvious reasons, I need to stop.  I think this is ranging into unhealthy territory now.  But I’m glad I did this, wrote this down.  I think I needed to get it out of my head.  ~~And maybe it’s not a baby bird; maybe it’s more like a delicate plant, something that needs constant care and attention to flower.  But its leaves are nice enough on their own and it does well enough with just sunlight and water, and you can leave it on your windowsill and glance at it from time to time, just happy to have it to look at.  Ugh, that’s no better.~~

I love you.  I wish you loved me, too.

 ~~Love,  
Your friend,  
Sincerely,  
~~Yours,  
[SUBJECT #1]

&&&

It could get me terminated.  Hopefully only in the sense of being fired rather than being fired _at_ , but I really don’t want to find out.  I’m just going to have to be really, really careful.   M doesn’t even know, not officially.  I think she suspects, but I haven’t told her – best all around if she can maintain plausible deniability.

Of all people, I have J to thank for this.  The new guy’s always the one who gets the privilege of reconstructing shredded documents, and J’s the one who let slip about the letter.   Actually showed it to me, too, then promptly left it on his desk and went on lunch break.  I almost suspect divine intervention, it was that easy.

I had to work fast to be able to make a copy, shred the copy, tape it back together and get it back on J’s desk.  Sure, maybe I didn’t need the original for this – the content’s the same either way, and it’s obvious the thing’s been put back together against the author’s wishes – but I want him to have the actual letter with the real pen strokes that pressed dents into the paper.  Nobody looks too closely at the stuff in the files once it’s been transcribed and logged into evidence, anyway.

And getting the letter was the easy part – it’s the delivery that’s going to be a bitch.  I liked the drama of slipping it under his door at night and then running away.  I had a whole plan going on how to sneak up during a change in surveillance shifts, maybe slip some Tylenol PM into somebody’s thermos before I remembered that, oh, right, this isn’t Mission fucking Impossible, and the postal service will look a lot less suspicious delivering a letter than I would.  Still might order that blowdart gun off of eBay, though.  Might come in handy some day.

So I fold the letter carefully and stick it in a plain white envelope.  I wear gloves and I don’t lick the seal – not like this guy’s got a crime lab in his basement, but you don’t do this job for years without developing a serious sense of paranoia.  I do slip in a note, though, typed and printed on plain paper – “Sorry for intruding, but I think you need to read this.”  I sign it “A Friend.”  After that, it’s as simple as addressing it and dropping it at a post office in the center of town.  The little blue door that swings shut after it makes an anticlimactic little creak, and it’s done.

It’ll take two to three business days before I’ll find out if I made two lives a little better, or if I just brought the roof down on top of all our heads.

&&&

Transcript  
Conversation between SUBJECT #1 and SUBJECT #2 at #1’s residence  
Recorded 24 July 2009

CP: Hey, [SUBJECT #2], come on in.

ZQ: Thanks. [shuffling, closing door]  Sorry to be so vague over the phone, I just…  I needed to talk to you in person.

CP: Yeah, hey, not a problem.  Sit down. [pause]  You alright?  You’re not… sick or anything, are you?

ZQ: What?  No!  Nothing like that.

CP: Thank god.  You were kind of freaking me out.

ZQ: It’s okay. [pause]  Do you believe in fate, [SUBJECT #1]?

CP: Okay, did I mention the part about freaking me out?

ZQ: No, not in a bad way.  It’s not…  I mean, do you think there are certain things that are meant to happen?  Or do you think we all just kind of bounce around randomly, doing the best with what we get?

CP: God, what a question.

ZQ: It’s okay, you don’t—

CP: The first one.  Not, like, we’ve all got some great destiny or there’s some great overarching reason that I spilled coffee on my best jeans today, but… yeah.  I think some things are meant to be.  I’m guessing you do, as well?

ZQ: No, actually.  Or, I mean, I didn’t.  I’m kind of re-evaluating that stance, though.

CP: Okay, I’ll bite.  Why?

ZQ: That’s not the important part.  The important thing is… I’m not a risk-taker.  You know that, right?

CP: I guess.

ZQ: It’s not that I don’t try new things, I just like to be reasonably sure of the outcome before I start.  And if the odds are bad, well, I move on to something else.

CP: Yeah, okay, I can see that.

ZQ: But I think I’m going to need to start taking more risks.

CP: [SUBJECT #2], I told you, you would not look good with blond highlights.  I don’t even know how you came up with that idea.

ZQ: Will you just shut up for a second?

CP: Not about the highlights.  I will not let you do that to yourself.  I will call your mother if I have to.  I will—

ZQ: I love you.

CP: –start an internet campaign. [pause]  Wait, what?

ZQ: Shit, I should’ve worked up to that more gradually.  Well, fuck it.  I love you, [SUBJECT #1].  And not in the “I totally love you, man” way.  The real way.

CP: You… What… Why?

ZQ: [pause] What do you mean, why?

CP: Why now?  Why me?

ZQ: Why you?  Seriously?  You have no idea why I might love you?

CP: Well, I mean, I make pretty good salsa verde.

ZQ: Salsa?  Fucking… [indecipherable muttering]  Yes, [SUBJECT #1], you make a decent salsa verde.  You’re also pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted in a man, so there’s that.

CP: Is this the destiny thing you were talking about?

ZQ: It’s… Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t have phrased it like that, but yeah, it kind of feels…  I don’t know, how does it feel?  You tell me.

CP: Tell you what?

ZQ: I think…  I wouldn’t have said all that if I didn’t have reason to believe you felt at least an inkling of something for me.

CP: I…

ZQ: You don’t have to confess your undying love for me or anything, just…  Would this be something you could see yourself doing?

CP: I could… I could see myself doing you. [pause] This!  I could see myself doing this! [laughter from both]  Oh god.

ZQ: Did you—

CP: Yeah, I meant it.  Have I been obvious about it?

ZQ: No, not at all, I just… [pause] I don’t know, I had a feeling.

CP: So, uh, what do we do?

ZQ: Well, I guess we could try the whole dating thing, see where that takes us.  We’ll probably have to be pretty careful about it.

CP: No, I mean now.  What do we do right now?

ZQ: Oh.  Uh… [scuffling, laughter, kissing sounds] How about that?

CP: I think I can do that. [sounds of shifting fabric, more kissing, a moan] Oh god, and that.  Much more of that.

ZQ: I had a feeling you’d like that.

[kissing, moaning, laughter]

TAPE ENDS

&&&

When I arrive Monday morning, I half expect sirens to be going off, people to be running everywhere and shouting into their cell phones.  But aside from the fact that I’m having to actually concentrate to keep my hands from shaking, everything is normal – the receptionist is perky, the coffee is terrible, V is pretending not to be asleep at her desk but is snoring lightly, J is apparently playing paper football with himself.

The only thing out of place is the digital voice recorder and headphones on my desk, as well as the sticky note informing me of a meeting regarding “urgent updates on a recent case.”  I hardly even have time to process that before M is at my desk, practically dancing with delight.

“Did you hear?” she asks, her voice two octaves higher than usual, and my heart shoots into my throat.

“Hear what?”

She points to the recorder and I pick it up, unplugging the headphones so it’ll play over the small speaker.  I go to hit play, but she grabs my hand.  “Plug the headphones back in.”

“Why?  We both can’t listen to it if I—”

“Plug.  The headphones.  _In_.”

I roll my eyes, but I do it, inserting the earpiece in each ear before starting the playback.  It’s them, talking quietly about nothing in particular.  I turn to look at M.  “What am I listening for here?”

She frowns.  “Shit, I thought I had it cued up.  Let me…”  She grabs the recorder, nearly yanking my ears off in the process, and fast-forwards.  “Mmkay, we should be getting to the good stuff right about... here.”  She hits play again.

You’re going to think I’m a total idiot, but my first thought was that there had been some type of accident and they were in terrible pain.  But then there’s sudden laughter that ends in a gasp, and…

Well.

That’s…

Chalk one up for fate.  And the US Postal Service.  And whatever fine manufacturer made that mattress, because it is audibly getting a workout.

I can’t help it; I start to giggle.  My face is turning red and people are starting to stare, but I can’t help it.  I giggle until I can barely even breathe.  Fortunately I’m facing the desk, so M covers for me by announcing to the eavesdroppers, “Type ‘corgi flop’ into YouTube.  You can thank me later.”

When I get myself under control, I murmur, “Thanks.”  And “How long does this go on?”

She grins.  “All weekend.”

“I really shouldn’t be listening to this,” I say solemnly, “out of respect for their— _holy shit_ , I have _never_ heard anyone make that noise.  What are they doing?”

“We don’t know.  J was in the field and decided to ‘suspend visual surveillance’ for a while.”  M’s grin gets wider.  “He says he’s having nightmares now.”

This time I really do turn off the recorder, because it’s definitely starting to get hotter in here and I have a whole day of work ahead of me which will not be made any easier by imagining… fuck it, today’s totally shot.  “Is this what the meeting’s about?”

“Has to be.”

“So, uh,” I try to venture casually, the initial glee wearing off.  I haven’t wanted to think about this, but if it’s going to come up in the meeting…  “What happened?  How did they…?”

I trail off pathetically, and M’s expression goes wide-eyed and innocent.  “Don’t know.  Suddenly on Friday they got over themselves and declared their man-feelings.”

My palms start to sweat.  “No particular reason why?”

“Nope.  I’ve heard the tapes myself.  It’s almost nauseatingly sweet.”  She winks.  “I guess they just figured out they were supposed to be together.”

“Good for them,” I say, trying not to visibly sag with relief.

“Very, very good for them,” she agrees.

“What’s T’s reaction to all of this?”

As if on cue, our boss’s door swings open and she comes storming into the room.  “G!  M!  We need some damage control, _now_.  You-know-who just tried to walk out of a Brentwood 7-11 with 75 dollars worth of beef jerky jammed in her purse.”

M just can’t help herself.  “Wow, that’s a lot of meat, even for—”

I cut her off before she says something she’ll regret.  “What about the meeting?”

T rubs at her temples.  “Compared to this, incredibly minor stuff.  I can fill you both in later.  Go.”

M and I switch into business mode, quickly getting our emergency kits together – cash for bribes, fake government IDs in case we need to confiscate phones or cameras, bad-ass mirrored sunglasses.  You just can’t do this job without bad-ass sunglasses.

I take one last look at the voice recorder.  Our technology division keeps neodymium magnets around to wipe incriminating evidence on hard drives; it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch if one happened to get a little too close to an old, battered recorder.  I hold down the erase button until it beeps, then toss it in the drawer.

“You ready?” M asks, her bag already over her shoulder.

I don the sunglasses.  “Looks like this starlet is about to _meat_ her match.”

M sighs.  “I hate you so much.”


End file.
